


Cursed?

by pratintraining



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-11-21 05:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11350650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pratintraining/pseuds/pratintraining
Summary: Merlin uses his magic to make Arthur a little clumsier every now and then in revenge for all the insults Arthur throws at him.





	Cursed?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post on Tumblr: http://reineyday.tumblr.com/post/113977077130/mamalaz-does-anyone-else-wonder-if-merlin-just

Arthur was an absolute  _prat_ , and even though Merlin hadn’t been serving him long, he’s had quite enough.

“Merlin,” Arthur would say, “go muck out my stables.”

“They’ve already been mucked out, Sire.”

“Have they?” he’d continue. “Good. Then go clean my armour.”

“Polished and shining, Sire.”

“Have you seen the state of my room, Merlin? Go fix it.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with your room,  _Sire._ ”

Arthur would make an indignant noise in response, and then, “You can’t speak to me like that,  _Mer_ lin! Do you want to spend the night in the stocks?”

And Merlin would grit his teeth before replying, “No, sorry  _Sire_.” And then Merlin would mutter something a little bit rude, and Arthur would smack him in the head, and they’d glare at each other.

Honestly, Merlin wondered why he was still here—aside from the fact that it was apparently his  _destiny_  to save the Prince’s arse. Over and over again. Without recognition.

No, you know what? Merlin didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve  _any_ of this, but he obviously couldn’t just reveal his magic or leave Camelot, because the former would get him beheaded and the latter would mean leaving Arthur on his own, and as much as Arthur annoyed him, he was still kind of okay. Every now and then. When he wasn’t being a prat. Plus, without Merlin, he’d probably already be dead by now.

Well, if Merlin couldn’t get the recognition he deserved—or, at the very least, the _respect_  he deserved—then he would have to go about it a different way.

It started when they were walking in the woods.

“ _Mer_ lin, can you be any louder?” Arthur was trying to hunt, and Merlin had just stepped on a twig and apparently scared off the stag Arthur had been pursuing. “At this rate, we’ll come back looking like a couple of idiots—hunting for hours and coming back with nothing.”

“Well,  _you’re_  the one actually hunting, so you’ll probably be the only one looking like an idiot.”

“Ah, but Merlin, you forget that you always look like an idiot.”

Merlin gave him a face, and then when Arthur turned, Merlin let his eyes flash gold and watch as a tree root came out of seemingly nowhere and tripped Arthur up. He fell face down, and Merlin cracked up. “Who looks like an idiot now, Sire?”

Arthur gave him a death glare before getting up.

From then on, whenever Arthur said something particularly prattish, Merlin’s eyes would glint golden, and maybe he’d whisper a magical word or two, and all of a sudden Arthur would fall face-first, or find himself tangled in his clothes or blankets, or spill whatever he was drinking all over his front, or in one particularly memorable case, babble like an idiot in front of his father because he suddenly seemed to have lost his brain-to-mouth filter. He kept going on and on about how boring their little family dinner was turning out to be and how he’d rather be spending time bickering with Merlin.

Merlin wanted to laugh, and kept grinning as he listened to Arthur’s running commentary on the food and the wine, watching Arthur’s mildly confused expression as he kept talking without stop, Morgana’s amused one, and Uther’s mildly surprised one—like he just didn’t know what to make of the spectacle. Gwen seemed to want to laugh too, and she and Merlin shared smiles as they attended to the royal family.

When Arthur came back though, he started going off about how much of a fool he was, and his expression was turning into one of horror as he started talking about his insecurities and his mouth didn’t seem to want to stop. Merlin turned and whispered a word, eyes flashing, and heard Arthur’s sigh of relief as he stopped talking. When Merlin turned back to help Arthur undress, his expression was stricken, and Merlin thought maybe that one was a bit much, and he wouldn’t use it again. If Arthur ever told him his insecurities, he’d want it to be because he wanted to confide in Merlin, not because Merlin had removed his brain-to-mouth filter.

After that incident, though, things started to get tricky—Arthur was beginning to notice.

Arthur tripped over his boots  with a yelp (which incidentally happened after Arthur questioned Merlin’s mental capabilities), and when he picked himself up and sat on his bed, he frowned.

“What?” Merlin asked, noting his expression.

“Merlin…” he started, looking at his blankets. That morning, those blankets decided they wanted to keep Arthur in bed longer than Arthur himself wanted to be, and in an attempt to get out of them, he rolled off his bed and landed on his floor.  Merlin came in a second later laughing his arse off. “Do you think I’m… Cursed?”

Alarm bells went off in Merlin’s head, and his first instinct was to laugh. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, surely you’ve noticed I’ve been clumsier than  _you_ as of late,” he said, his frown deepening. “And what else would possess me to keep on— _speaking_  the way I did during dinner with my family, unless it was sorcery?”

“You can’t just blame your sudden inability to keep balanced on  _sorcery_ , Arthur.”

Arthur gave Merlin an annoyed look before continuing. “But I’ve been thinking about it, and that’s the only explanation I can come up with.”

“Maybe you’re just not the best at coming up with explanations.”

Arthur levelled him with one of his glares. “This is serious, Merlin. There’s a sorcerer after my life!”

“Yes,” Merlin deadpanned, “and instead of killing you, that sorcerer is just going to give you really  _really_  bad luck.”

Arthur frowned again. “But… I’ve never been this clumsy.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re growing.”

Arthur scoffed. “And you say  _I_ might be bad at coming up with explanations.” He was shaking his head, but his lips were quirked up in a bit of a smile, and he seemed to be feeling better.

Merlin just shrugged, giving Arthur a small smile of his own, before turning back around to clear Arthur’s dinner plates off the table. It had been fun while it lasted, but now that Arthur suspects sorcery, Merlin figured he should just step back and let Arthur believe he really  _was_  just having bad luck. He sighed, thinking about the months and perhaps even years ahead, where he’ll continue being berated and bossed around and ridiculed by Arthur, all the while saving Arthur’s arse from every sorcerer that actually  _wanted_  to kill him or his father or take over Camelot.

When he turned his head and saw Arthur tying the laces of his boots up three times over like the laces would just fly out of his grasp, an overwhelming fondness came over him. Maybe Merlin was being a little cruel, and Arthur didn’t actually deserve what he’d been put through these past few weeks just because he was a prat who didn’t know just how much Merlin actually does for him. It’s not like Merlin could tell him anyways—not while Uther was still king.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, interrupting his train of thought. “I’m off to the fields. One of the knights requested to spar with me. Don’t break anything.”

Merlin gave him a cheeky grin. “With your track record, I’d assume it would be  _you_ breaking something, Sire.”

Arthur pressed his lips together, like he was stopping himself from laughing. “ _Do_  shut up, Merlin.” He waved then, off to the training grounds for his sparring match.

He waited a moment before facing the room at large and taking a deep breath. Gaius said he shouldn’t, but Merlin couldn’t very well keep his magic inside all the time. He started with the bed, fluffing out the pillows and properly folding the sheets, before having his magic simultaneously arrange Arthur’s closet and sweeping the floors, and then—the door clicked.

“ _Mer_ lin, I left my sword in here and you didn’t notice—” He stopped abruptly, Merlin doing the same. Arthur’s shirt, being folded midair, fluttered to the floor, and the broom fell with a clatter.

The two of them stood, frozen, rooted to their spots, as Arthur’s eyes darted from the broom to the shirt to the bed, whose sheets were now immaculately folded. Merlin’s eyes stayed trained to Arthur’s face the whole time, waiting for an emotion to make itself known.

Arthur’s grip on the door tightened, and then slowly, he moved into the room and closed the door behind him. Merlin didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing—on the one hand, Arthur wasn’t screaming at him (yet), and he was closing the door for what seemed like privacy but, you know, maybe Arthur just wanted to kill Merlin in private or something.

Merlin watched the muscles of Arthur’s jaw and neck tense as Arthur gritted his teeth, his brows furrowing in what Merlin could tell were the early signs of Arthur’s extreme anger. His nostrils flared as he took a big breath, and Merlin braced himself.

But, the shout never came.

He peered up at Arthur’s face, and he was looking at the bed again.

And then he… He  _laughed_. Bright, loud, in a tone of what sounded like slight disbelief.

Merlin waited for Arthur’s laughter to die down, bewildered but a little relieved, a little hopeful. His laughter didn’t sound like crazy, heartbreaking laughter, but honest and happy.

When Arthur finished, he looked at Merlin and, with a broad smile: “You— _prat!_ ”

Merlin froze, eyes widening. “What?”

“The  _blankets_ ,” Arthur said, pointing a finger at the bed. “That was  _you_ , wasn’t it?”

His mouth fell open. “I—”

“And all my spilled drinks and stupid falls— _you!”_

“Arthur—”

Arthur gasped suddenly, his brows furrowing again. “That time I made a fool of myself! Ha! I don’t  _believe_  this!”

Arthur started pacing, and Merlin took a step back, still not sure whether he should prepare to fight, flee, or laugh it off.

“It’s no wonder these things kept happening after I insult you!” Arthur rounded on him. “And it’s no wonder I was able to stop talking like an idiot after the dinner was over—because  _you_  were the one I started confiding in!  _You!_ ”

Abruptly, he stopped pacing, and Merlin flinched—it was now or never.

“Merlin…” he said, looking him straight in the eye.

“Arthur?”

“You. Are. An.  _Idiot!_  What if it wasn’t me that walked in?” Arthur said, gesturing wildly to the door. “You’re using sorcery for such  _petty_ things. Are you that stupid?”

“Arthur, listen, I can leave—just don’t tell your father and I—wait—what?”

Arthur smacked him over the head, before fetching his sword from where it was leaning, by his bedside table.

“When I get back,” he said, pointing at Merlin with his sword, still sheathed, “we will talk about this. And I will probably throw you in the stocks for all the  _suffering_  you put me through this past fortnight.”

“Wait, but Arthur—”

“I won’t tell my father, Merlin,” he said quietly. “And I  _am_  angry, believe me. But first, sparring. And when I come back, I want to see you on your hands and knees, scrubbing the floor  _without_  magic, are we clear?”

Merlin stood, dumbfounded, before shaking himself out of it and nodding. “Yes, Sire.”

“Good.” Before heading out, he gave Merlin a triumphant look. “I  _knew_  it was sorcery!”

Merlin just snorted as Arthur shut the door to his chambers and stalked off.

Arthur was an absolute  _prat_ , but it seemed he was turning out to be quite a friend, too.


End file.
